


will you bathe me with me in the stream of life?

by janie_tangerine



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (THE EVEN WORSE ALTERNATIVE!), Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, First Meetings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Geraskier Kink Bingo (The Witcher), I Don't Even Know, Implied Body Horror, Inspired by Frankenstein, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Rough Sex, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trial Of The Grasses (The Witcher), have the first frankenstein au that i planned for these two idiots, the author has issues with this trope, they're also ridic thirsty for each other, yes there's another coming up at some point sorry not sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:33:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25368418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: “I think so,” Jaskier says, “Geralt of Rivia, aren’t you?”The witcher does look surprised at that, his pale, thin mouth in a straight line.Geralt of Rivia is famous for being… more of a so-called abomination than any other witcher, or so people whisper. All of the others only went through the infamous Trial of Grasses and were revived once and then sent on their way, but him —People say that he took so well to the mutagens that they tried to enhance him further. Jaskier doesn’t know how much truth there is to the tales – if he was killed and revived more than once and if the alchemists of his school actually sew new limbs on him to make him better at his intended purpose -- but he knows that the man is given a wide berth by anyone who doesn’t need his services, barely gets paid and speaks little and is infamous for something that went down in Blaviken years ago.“What if I am?” the witcher asks.Or: in which everything is more or less the same except that all witchers die and get revived during the trials, Jaskier absolutely can't care less for that one notion and Geralt doesn't quite know what to make of that.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 68
Kudos: 806
Collections: Geraskier Kink Bingo, Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	will you bathe me with me in the stream of life?

**Author's Note:**

> ... hello. So, tldr: I wrote this for the _rough sex_ square on the geraskier kink bingo card LAST MONTH, then... let's just say that rl shit happened that sent me into a funk and I could barely finish it let alone post it, but now I decided that I have to get back into the swing of things, so... welcome to what I always do in each single fandom I end up into ie spam with the frankenstein au of doom where whoever's the creature gets a lot of nice things and possibly a good time. I have another with a different premise/more of a fusion for another square of that bingo but for now get the... frankenstein au canon version and honestly idek what I was doing here but... here we go. (Also please heed the tags I mean this fic is more THEY'RE HORNY™ FOR EACH OTHER than anything else but still the premises are what they are /o\\)
> 
> Other than that: I own zilch, the title is from a Johnny Cash song and I'll now go vaguely saunter downwards relishing in the fact that this isn't sitting on my HD anymore. /o\

The moment Jaskier notices the man sitting in the corner of the tavern, he _knows_ he must be a witcher.

It’s not just that everyone is giving him a wide berth, or that everyone is glaring at him as they pass by. That would have been enough of a hint, along with the fact that he obviously cuts an imposing figure and that he’s dressed in a leather armor and he has two swords placed against the wall.

It’s also that he’s eating barely cooked food, which is _also_ a cause of receiving bad stares, but — well.

No one knows exactly how witchers are made, but _everyone_ knows that they’re more corpses than men.

Or _better_ : everyone knows that witchers are made through those trials of theirs. Everyone knows they’re killed and then revived during the first one, but it only works for a few of them… and so each single witcher in existence is technically a dead man walking.

As in, one more reason why they’re kept at arm’s length.

That’s also why they’re generally given terrible food and drink — after all, it’s fuel. No need for anyone to waste nice food on a monster who isn’t even alive.

Except that they’re also throwing rotten fruit and hard bread at _Jaskier_ and fine, it wasn’t his best song, but there was no reason to be this rude, and the witcher is the only person in the room who is not actively trying to run him out of it, and it’s not as if Jaskier ever bought into that _they’re dead men without feelings_ bullshit — no one who’s what people says witchers are would even waste a moment of their time killing monsters for other people.

Also, he’s obviously not making any more money tonight.

He puts his lute away, gathers as much edible food from the ground as he can spare and then he heads for the witcher’s table.

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood,” he says, figuring there’s no point in beating around the bush.

The spoon the witcher is using to eat what looks like a disgusting broth falls back into the bowl at once, and there’s no answer for a long moment, but then —

“I’m here to drink alone,” the man rasps back, voice low and barely audible, as if his vocal cords were hurt a long time ago and never recovered. He’s also hiding his face under a hood, which is not making things any easier, but never let it be said that Jaskier is the kind of guy who gives up at the first difficulty.

He takes the other seat and drops down in front of him.

“Good. Yeah, good,” he blurts, then goes straight to the point. “No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except… for you. Come on. You don’t want to keep a man with… bread in his pants waiting.” Ouch. _That_ really came out badly, he realizes as the witcher raises his face and looks at him with cat-like golden eyes. Well, he’s looking at Jaskier, at least. “You must have some review for me. Three words or less.”

The witcher’s eyes focus on his and he moves a bit forward, still not pulling down his hood. He’s glancing at Jaskier like he wants to figure out if he’s for real or not, which — fair. He doesn’t think witchers get approached much, period.

His voice is still hoarse and barely audible when he gives a tentative answer. “They don’t exist.”

“What doesn’t exist?”

“The monsters in your songs,” the witcher explains.

He says nothing else, and then he stands to leave after pushing away his plate —

And Jaskier thinks he sees white hair under the hood before the witcher heads out of the tavern.

Wait —

 _White hair_?

— —

“Wait!” Jaskier calls after the witcher as he finds him getting his horse outside the tavern. “I think I know who you are.”

The witcher turns towards him, a gloved hand dragging down his hood.

“You _do_ now?” He rasps, and oh.

 _Oh_.

Jaskier’s heartbeat is speeding up. The man _does_ indeed have silky white hair that reaches his shoulders, as badly kept as it is, and the golden cat eyes that all witchers have… but he also has visible suture scars along his neck before they disappear into the armor, and the rest of him is also covered in black leather, but of course it is.

“I think so,” Jaskier says, “Geralt of Rivia, aren’t you?”

The witcher _does_ look surprised at that, his pale, thin mouth in a straight line.

Geralt of Rivia _is_ famous for being… more of a so-called abomination than any other witcher, or so people whisper. All of the others only went through the infamous Trial of Grasses and were revived once and then sent on their way, but _him_ —

People say that he took so well to the mutagens that they tried to enhance him further. Jaskier doesn’t know how much truth there is to the tales – if he was killed and revived more than once and if the alchemists of his school actually sew new limbs on him to make him _better_ at his intended purpose -- but he knows that the man is given a wide berth by anyone who doesn’t need his services, barely gets paid and speaks little and is infamous for something that went down in Blaviken years ago.

“What if I am?” the witcher asks.

Jaskier hadn’t exactly thought that far.

Except that now that he’s looking at the man, he knows at least three things.

One, that for having presumably been killed and brought back to life more than once, the guy looks remarkably… well-adjusted, he supposes. Fine, he’s obviously tense and that voice sounds strange and the fact that he’s not showing an inch of skin other than his face says there must be some truth to those stories. But other than that… he doesn’t seem dangerous or anything of the kind.

Two… well, he’s _fucking attractive_. Jaskier is pretty sure would not be a widely shared opinion… but that hair really does look soft and silky and it’s such a unique color he can’t help wondering how it would feel to touch it, and the cat-like eyes are certainly _something_ but he likes that they’re golden and they almost seem to be glowing, and for the rest… he’s _tall_ , and built, and as covered in leather as it is, Jaskier _can_ see that he has a pretty damn nice ass, and it’s not as if _anything_ ever stopped him when it came to people he found attractive.

Three: he _really_ needs some money. His armor is so old and worn out Jaskier doesn’t know how it’s still holding itself together, his boots aren’t faring that well either and his face is thinner than one would think, considering how bulky he is.

Well.

Jaskier _also_ is in need of money. Who says he can’t get two birds with one stone?

“What if I have a proposition for you?”

“People don’t have _propositions_ for me,” Geralt of Rivia replies.

“Well, I do. I can see that you’re in dire need of better income, _I_ am in dire need of writing about something more rewarding than what I have until now… so what if I come with you and write songs about your monster slaying and all of that? I’d make money, _you_ would make more money and maybe people wouldn’t presume things, it’s a win for the both of us.”

The witcher _stares_ at him. “There’s nothing about _me_ to sing about.”

“And what would you lose by letting me tag along? At worst it doesn’t work and I go back to singing about abortions and whatnot. By the way, fancy some bread? It’s not _that_ hard. I mean, it’s edible.”

It’s definitely not his smoothest move, but when he does throw that bread at the witcher, he _does_ grab it at once in between black-clad fingers.

“Your funeral,” he rasps. “You don’t touch the horse.”

Then he mounts on it and heads towards the forest.

Jaskier, who is _not_ the kind of man who lets chances pass him by, assures him that he won’t be a bother and starts running after Geralt, and he does notice that by the time he’s caught up, he’s eaten _all_ of his crappy stale bread.

Yes, Jaskier decides, he _really_ needs someone to help him turn a new leaf when it comes to his image.

— —

Now: he hadn’t thought that he would get _some_ material to sing about not even two hours after meeting the guy, but well — running into that group of rogue elves while they were passing through a camp _certainly_ hadn’t been planned, and Jaskier _had_ thought they’d kill them for sure, except they hadn’t, and he had noticed that Geralt didn’t even spit blood when they proceeded to hit him in the face countless times, and now that they’re around a fire very far from them, his new lute on the side and Geralt still staring into the flames without taking off the armor, he can’t help asking.

“You know,” he says, “you didn’t have to give them what little coin you had.”

Geralt shrugs. “I can go on without.” He stays silent for a long time, then shrugs. “And you didn’t need to get kicked in the ribs on my account.”

Jaskier, who can still feel the damned bruises, doesn’t like the sound of that.

“And why, pray tell? They didn’t go easy on you, someone had to distract them.”

Golden eyes find his own over the fire. “You _do_ know how witchers are made.”

“The basics of it are no secret,” Jaskier shrugs. “I do.”

“ _Dead people_ don’t feel pain the way you do. That’s part of the whole damned fucking point.”

Jaskier _really_ doesn’t like how that sounds.

“And so what? Whatever it is that you are, you certainly are talking and moving, excuse me if I don’t want anyone I’m tied up to getting kicked so hard it’d have killed a regular guy.”

Geralt _stares_ at him.

Then he turns and gets into his bedroll, saying nothing.

Jaskier isn’t feeling sleepy at all, so he takes out his small notebook.

He thinks he _does_ have a few lyrics he can work with.

— —

“Those lyrics aren’t true,” Geralt comments the moment he runs them through him the first time.

“Well, _obviously_ ,” Jaskier says, “you wouldn’t want to give their location out and you need to look like someone who _has_ conquered a foe. And fine, it’s not respectful of the facts, but it’s not like respect makes history, and it certainly doesn’t buy you new armor.”

“My armor is fine,” Geralt protests. It’s a very weak argument.

“Your armor looks like it’ll fall apart,” Jaskier corrects him. “And there’s no harm in trying.”

“No one is ever going to _toss coins_ to me, but what have you,” he rasps, and then goes back to looking at the road as they walk.

Jaskier, on one side, would really like to know how he sounds so hoarse.

On the other, he thinks he has a suspicion and he’s not so sure he wants to hear the answer.

— —

It’s another week before they reach a city.

Geralt’s left glove falls apart a few miles from it — his mare grasps it with her teeth as he hands her an apple, and he swears under his breath as he throws it away before hiding his hand behind his cloak.

Too bad that Jaskier _is_ observant and he didn’t miss what looked like old sutures right where fingers meet palm.

“You go discuss with the innkeeper,” the witcher says when they walk into town.

“What — sure,” Jaskier says. “I can play for the room tonight, it’s no problem, but —”

“If anyone sees _that_ ,” he nods towards the hand, “we’re not sleeping anywhere but in the woods.”

Jaskier would like to point out that it was just a hand.

He has a feeling it would be useless.

He nods and goes to barter for the room.

Geralt doesn’t leave it until the next morning, and his left hand is wrapped in bandages he would usually save for wounds.

He comes back to tell Jaskier that he found a contract and that he’ll be back by next day and to _not_ follow him. Jaskier _would_ have, but something in his tone of voice tells him that it wouldn’t be a good idea, and so he doesn’t.

Of course, he gets no details, but when Geralt comes back later that night and asks why people actually _did_ throw some money at him, Jaskier just smirks and tells him that he knew that song would have worked.

Geralt just glares at him and goes to bed wearing his damned dirty clothes, just kicking off his shoes.

He has dark socks underneath.

The next morning, he goes to buy a new set of gloves. The old one was so threadbare, Jaskier doesn’t want to know how long he had it.

— —

After two months, Jaskier _still_ hasn’t seen more of the man’s skin than that hand and the neck, which is — well.

Not _unnerving_ , though certainly it’s making his sexual frustration not getting any better, with all the times he has imagined taking all that leather off Geralt just to see _what_ exactly is underneath, but he can see how much Geralt takes care not to talk to people too much, to never let them stare at him for too long, and even if _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher_ is actually becoming successful, he still won’t let himself linger in taverns, and he’ll keep Jaskier locked out of the room whenever he’s washing up.

Which Jaskier _can_ understand, especially since it’s been this long and Geralt looks surprised every damned day that he still hasn’t left. He supposes the man isn’t exactly adjusted to hang around the same person all the time. But still, he had figured that at least by now Geralt would have grasped that Jaskier is not leaving also because he _does_ like his company.

Fine, he talks little and grunts too much and is hardly _company_ , but Jaskier has seen that regardless from what people whisper he does care about the people who hire him, that he doesn’t automatically kill his contracts unless he has no other options, that he flinches when children run from the sight of him and that he never complains about how _badly_ people treat him, and —

It’s not helping with how much he actually _does_ want to see him naked.

Still, he hardly can go and point that out. He has a feeling Geralt wouldn’t believe him, and considering that when Jaskier once asked him if he doesn’t need a whore once in a while he just glared him into silence, well. No point in pressing it.

That changes after the goddamned stoning.

 _Now_ , Jaskier is pretty sure that Geralt would have _never_ let him get close to the armor if not if there was no other option.

 _No other option_ can get summed up in the two of them finding a contract in a village where everyone looks at them wrong from the get-go, Geralt coming back from it with black eyes and pale skin because his potions’ effect hadn’t faded away yet, people actually fucking _stoning_ him out of the damned village and Jaskier having to help him get up on Roach before running off to the nearest town — thankfully there’s another smaller place a few miles away and people are friendlier there, and the innkeeper agrees to send them a bath upstairs without complaining too much… and when Jaskier gets them upstairs after the bath is brought up, he realizes that Geralt is in no shape to do anything. He’s covered in what looks like selkiemore guts, hair and face and armor, there’s dark blood sticking everywhere underneath, his eyes are still pitch black and on top of that people threw rocks in his damned _face_. He’s barely even responding to his name when Jaskier calls him… and someone _has_ to get him out of that armor.

“Well,” he says, “sorry to do this when you obviously can’t have a say in it, but I can’t leave you like this until tomorrow. Come on, can’t be too bad.”

Geralt doesn’t react as Jaskier moves his hair away from his neck and starts unbuckling the armor — it’s _really_ worn out, Jaskier notices. At this point it might not be even worth it to try and clean it up. He undoes the rest of the buckles, puts it on the ground and takes off the gloves plastered to his hands, and when he does — yeah. Right. Both of them are pale, very much so, and there are tiny suture points along the base of his fingers, and now that he takes a _good_ look at them… they look like someone took them from _another_ hand and attached them to Geralt’s, and Jaskier swallows and tries to not think about it as he gets Geralt out of his trousers and shirt and socks, and he can barely even see what's underneath them because he's covered in monster slime and blood that seeped through the damned clothing.

He urges him into the bath and Geralt goes without saying a thing, and just after the water removes the first layer of grime Jaskier finally understands _why_ he keeps himself covered at all times.

Thing is — there are sutures along his neck _where his vocal cords are_ , and there are sutures over… well, unless Jaskier’s anatomy knowledge is wholly wrong, definitely liver, heart and kidneys.

 _What the fuck did they even do to him_ , he thinks, not sure he wants to know the answer… except that not everything he sees is exactly off-putting.

As he slowly runs a soaped up cloth over the residual dirt and grime, he can’t help thinking that, while for having all that muscle the man is a bit too gaunt and his heart beats so very slowly… gods, he’s nowhere near _less_ attractive for it, and as the black veins slowly recede from Geralt’s cheeks he can’t help brushing a fingertip over his chin, and when Geralt makes a small noise and leans into it, Jaskier has to keep himself in check to not let the cloth fall from his hands. He gives him a fairly thorough scrub, trying to not linger in between his legs too much -- even if now that he’s seen the man’s dick he certainly _will_ think about having it in his mouth -- and then proceeds on getting some good soap and trying to wash monster guts out of Geralt’s hair —

And the moment he does, Geralt _jerks_ back into his touch, that noise leaving his mouth again.

Part of Jaskier _really_ wants to talk, but he’s also halfway sure that it would ruin the moment, so he just hums the first old tune that comes into his head as he does, and doesn’t stop running his fingers through Geralt’s hair until it’s silken and clean. The black veins have retreated completely but Geralt has his eyes closed, and his skin is still ghastly pale, but at least now he looks miles better than he did before.

Jaskier takes a moment to get himself back in check, then helps him out of the tub and into a towel before pushing him under the covers. It’s not like Geralt had with anything he could actually sleep in and his clothes are ruined for good.

Tomorrow — well.

Tomorrow he’ll deal with however badly Geralt takes _this_. For now he puts two more blankets on top of him and settles for sleeping on top of the covers, and if he does run his fingers through Geralt’s hair until he knows he’s sleeping properly, well.

He _does_ seem to enjoy it, at least.

He supposes he’ll deal with that tomorrow, too, and he tries to not think about _why_ he would have sutures where he saw them before.

He has a feeling that if he does, he’ll sleep very, very badly.

— —

“Fuck,” Geralt says the morning after as soon as he wakes up and most likely does the math about what happened the night before — Jaskier has barely slept and he hasn’t even gotten out of his clothes, the tub is still in the corner, his clothing is lying in a dirty heap next to the door: it’s not exactly hard to figure out.

It also does feel like _exactly_ the reaction he could have predicted.

“Hey,” Jaskier says before it can escalate, “it’s _fine_. I mean, uh, not in general because you didn’t get paid and honestly, I don’t know how you’ve been dealing with those mobs all your life and you absolutely need to get a new armor and so on, but other than that, well. We both survived that mess, you’re not smelling like monster guts, chill.”

Geralt opens his mouth to counterargument, then he goes completely still, then closes it. His hand is clutching the sheets, he can see that — he’s barely sitting up and Jaskier can only see his neck and a bit of shoulders.

“ _Chill_ ,” he finally says.

“You look like you’re about to break something,” Jaskier shrugs. “No need to.”

Geralt stares at him.

“You — you saw,” he finally says.

“I mean, unless someone else dragged you in and out of that bath? Yes.”

He shrugs again. Geralt just stares at him like he can’t figure out what he’s fishing for.

“And that’s all you have to say.”

Ah, now they’re getting there. “I mean,” Jaskier says slowly, “it’s… a sort of known fact. Or better, it’s known how your lot is made. About _you_ , people just say things, which I supposed might have been an exaggeration or not, but it’s not like what I saw was… a surprise in itself.”

“ _In itself_.”

“Those stories _do_ say that you’ve had, uh, further enhancements. Though I don’t know if I would call them that.”

“Depends on the point of view, I guess,” Geralt sighs, letting the blanket fall down enough that it does uncover both his shoulders.

“Such as?” Jaskier dares asking.

Geralt stares at him for another long moment.

“Well. They’re supposed to be,” he finally says. “Since I took so well to the mutagens first — people go through the Grasses once, usually.”

“… You went through it more than that?”

“One for each time they _enhanced_ anything,” Geralt admits. “And if you were wondering, _yes_ , they thought I could do with longer fingers and —” He gestures to his chest, where the sutures over his internal organs were, “— from… well, before they sacked the place, they used to keep organs from… others who had died on the Path but were known for being stronger than usual.”

“… Do I want to know why you have sutures on your throat?” Jaskier asks, hoping that Geralt doesn’t think that the obvious disgust he’s feeling right now isn’t directed at _him_.

“I screamed so much every time I was revived that they had to rebuild them.”

Oh.

So that’s why he has such a low-pitched voice.

Well, _shit_.

“I don’t know if saying I’m sorry is what you want to hear,” Jaskier says carefully after Geralt stays silent for a while.

“You’d be the first,” Geralt says, and then he looks at him again. “And how are you even still here?”

“… Why wouldn’t I be?” Jaskier asks, thrown in for a loop by _that_ question.

Geralt’s eyes narrow. “Why _would you_?”

Jaskier is going to punch a wall. “I don’t know, I’ve been traveling with you this long and I _kind_ of suspected most of that, now having seen it or hearing the whole story would be what changes my mind? I mean, I should probably take offense at that except that I’ve seen how people treat you, so I won’t, but honestly, at this point I’m starting to presume that whatever you did in Blaviken was people deciding things about you beforehand.”

Geralt _flinches_ at that. “Sort of.” He clears his throat, tells the story in halting sentences, and just when Jaskier would really like to ask _how_ could people ever blame him for anything when he tried to actively not kill anyone and when that princess did make her choice after all, he looks down at his knees. “There was this girl in the middle of the turmoil. She was taken hostage by one of Stregobor’s people after Renfri died, and I tried to get her out of the way, but — it was one of the first jobs I took and I _could_ control my strength but I wasn’t — really thinking straight right now. I grabbed her too hard and I broke her neck, and Stregobor jumped on the chance to pin everything on me. _That’s_ what happened in Blaviken.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

“And you sound like you think it’s _your_ fault.”

“Whose would it be? I didn’t get one single thing right, and after that I had mobs on me more often than not.”

“ _Right_ , so not only you get experimented to hell and back out of what, seeing if they _could_ pull it off, then they send you off and people decide that it’s convenient to make you the bad guy all the time, and on top of that they barely even pay you for your troubles? But it’s _your_ fault now. I want to punch a wall, honestly.”

“… No need to do that on my account,” Geralt says slowly, like he really doesn’t believe a word of what he’s saying. “And it wasn’t to see if they could pull it off. Or maybe it was part of it. But — well. I _am_ more effective than the others.”

“ _What_?”

He shrugs. “The others get tired more easily. I can go without sleeping or eating longer than them. That was the point.”

“You know that’s even more massively fucked up than what I had assumed.”

“Well, you see why I was surprised that you’re still here.”

Jaskier’s currently _very_ , very sleep deprived, and he’s also apparently extremely angry on Geralt’s behalf, and he really does want to punch a wall, and it’s not like his brain to mouth filter ever _works_ even in normal circumstances, so —

Ah, fuck it.

“I don’t know,” Jaskier says, “I’ve been wanting to see you without those clothes since the moment I saw your face in Posada on top of the fact that if you had truly been an asshole I’d have left after two days and regardless of everything I think that after yesterday saying we’re not at least friends would be a joke, so —”

“You _what_?” Geralt asks, jerking back. “You didn’t say _that_.”

“What,” Jaskier says, “that I’ve been into you since _then_? I did. And yesterday didn’t change a single thing about it.”

The way Geralt looks at him now, you’d think Jaskier had just grown two heads.

“It _didn’t_.”

“I’m still here, am I?”

“You _are_ aware that the last time I took off my clothes in front of a woman she started screaming?”

“What a shame. She had very bad taste,” Jaskier shrugs. “What, you want tangible proof I’m not lying? Because I’m not.”

“Considering that the last time was the only time, excuse me if — _fuck_ ,” Geralt groans again, and wait, he most likely didn’t want to say _that_ , but —

“Wait,” Jaskier says, “now you _wait_ , you’re just implying that no one’s ever —”

“ _Before_ the trials,” Geralt blurts, “none of us was actually chaste. After, well. The others _sometimes_ manage to find people who think it would be a novelty. _I_ sure as fuck don’t. At least they don’t have sutures everywhere.”

“So you haven’t — _since then_?” Jaskier says, and if he sounds outraged, well. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Wish I was,” Geralt says, and then, “ _fuck_ , can we not do this?”

“No,” Jaskier protest, “absolutely _no_ , and at this point I think I have just one question.”

“Another one?”

“Last one, I swear. So, let’s say that I would be not so hypothetically interested in putting a remedy to the tragedy that you seemingly haven’t gotten any in _decades_ , and that I have absolutely no single problem with — _you_. Now, would you be interested in letting me give you a very practical demonstration of _that_ or not?”

“… _I_ would be interested?”

“Might come to you as a surprise, but I don’t kiss people who don’t want to kiss me back,” Jaskier shrugs. “So?”

“It’s not — I —” Geralt runs a hand through his hair in frustration, and whoever said witchers can’t have feelings, Jaskier decides, is full of shit. “ _That_ ’s not the problem. You know that — it wouldn’t be like doing it with someone… well —”

“Oh, I missed the memo until now? Tell me something I don’t know.”

“You _know_ it would take me way longer than most to get… ready for anything?”

“For the slow heartbeat? And whoever said I wanted it to be fast and short? I _can_ take my time with people, you know. And again, saw you yesterday. Nothing I didn’t like. And I’ve been wanting to since _we met_. So, yes or no? Because if you’re not into guys or not into _me_ or whatever then no offense and friends like before, but as far as _I_ am concerned? I don’t see one single objection, for —”

He never gets to finish the sentence because a moment later Geralt’s grasped his shirt and tugged Jaskier forward on top of him and crashed their mouths together, and for a moment Jaskier freezes because he hadn’t expected it, but then his brain catches up and he proceeds to immediately kiss the shit out of him back. lest he starts getting ideas, and — and Geralt _lets_ him, moaning into his mouth and letting him take control of it, his hands moving to Jaskier’s hips and _grasping_.

And — well.

He _does_ run a bit colder than usual, but his tongue is warm and wet and his lips are softer than they look like and his hair is all clean and silky and _soft_ , and now that Geralt’s naked chest is pressed against his own, he can feel that his heartbeat is so very slow, but still —

Nothing else feels _that_ different.

“Well,” he says when he has to move to breathe, “if _that_ was supposed to make me think back on it, it’s not working.”

“… It’s not.”

Jaskier shrugs, leaning back and taking off his chemise, and he can see the exact moment Geralt’s eyes narrow and he breathes in even if _he technically doesn’t need to_. Huh.

“So your heartbeat is slow. For the rest you feel exactly like anyone else and whoever didn’t even get as far as trying before deciding you wouldn’t has no taste.”

“… You’re serious,” Geralt says, still sounding like he can’t quite buy it.

“I just kissed you now, didn’t I? And you’re looking at me like you want me to do it again, so yes, I’m absolutely serious.”

Geralt keeps on _staring_ , but then something in his stare goes soft and he whispers _I am, too_ , and his cheeks stay pale but the way he looks as he holds himself up radiates embarrassment even if he obviously means it.

Well then.

Jaskier kicks off his trousers and underwear, figuring they should get on even footing. Geralt openly swallows, his throat working up and down, and the sheets fell down his chest enough to show the sutures all over his chest, and he only nods when Jaskier moves his knees around his thighs and runs his fingers over the scars around his kidneys.

“Would some attention here help?” He asks.

“Wouldn’t know,” Geralt breathes back, not quite looking at him. “Were you listening before?”

“Then I think I would like a try,” he says.

“Suit yourself,” Geralt groans as Jaskier’s fingers press on the sutures, and then he presses his mouth to Geralt’s throat — still a bit colder than a regular person’s, but not _that_ much, brushing his mouth over the scars on his throat and feeling Geralt moan a bit at that, and then louder, and then louder, and then he moves down and down, running his tongue across his skin until he reaches the sutures around his heart. It still beats so very slow, even if Jaskier stays over it a long, long time as Geralt’s hands tentatively grasp his hair with rough, long fingers. Jaskier lets him do it as he moves down to one kidney first and the others later, and as he moves towards his stomach, Geralt’s hips finally cant upwards for a moment.

“Nothing I didn’t like,” Jaskier says — actually, he had quite enjoyed the feeling of the roughened skin under his mouth, but from the way Geralt gasps, he thinks that he hadn’t expected it. “Think I could get rid of the sheets now?”

“If you’d like,” Geralt groans again, and Jaskier does, figuring they would just be in the way.

He can feel him tense as Jaskier does drag them down, uncovering him completely, and all right, his dick _isn’t_ hard and it’s not giving any signs of life in that sense, but Geralt _did_ warn him and it’s not like Jaskier’s never liked a challenge. He ignores it for the moment and leans down to suck at the pale skin around the stomach sutures — these ones are deeper, as if _that_ one transplant hasn’t gone as smoothly as the others, and so he spends time on it, and when he raises his eyes to check on Geralt the moment the fingers in his hair grip at it almost painfully, Geralt is looking down at him as if he can’t believe what he sees and _fuck_ but Jaskier really wants to take his time with him.

“Sure _I’d like_ ,” he says. “No one’s in a hurry here. And just for, hm, full disclosure —”

“Yes?”

“If you’re worried anything here is putting me off, just stop. Actually, can’t wait to see how long it takes me —”

“Oh, _fuck it_ ,” Geralt says, and suddenly he’s moved from underneath him and dragged him to sit on the side of the bed and _fuck he’s fallen to his knees in front of Jaskier and what the fuck_ —

“Geralt —”

“Just _shut up_ and let me do it,” he says, and a moment later he’s put his mouth around Jaskier’s half-hard dick and _holy fucking shit_ he’s not doing it by halves — he goes straight from nothing to full-on deepthroating just before he grabs Jaskier’s hands and _puts them into his hair_ and then starts to suck him off like he doesn’t even need to breathe —

Oh.

He —

He _doesn’t_ now, does he?

 _Oh_.

“Fuck,” he says, knowing that if Geralt goes on like this he’s not going to last long, and _fuck_ but for not having presumably have had any in a very long time he’s quite damned good at it, his tongue moving just _right_ around the head, hands around Jaskier’s hips, and when he pulls a bit on Geralt’s hair Geralt _moans_ and sucks him harder and there might be precome running down his chin but he doesn’t seem to give a damn, and then Jaskier runs his fingers through the hair at the back of his head —

“Fuck, you’re so _good_ at this,” he blurts, “I was absolutely missing out — _oh_ , fuck, _fuck_ I’m this close —”

Geralt doesn’t move and inch and keeps on moving his head up and down and it’s too much, _too fucking much_ , and when Jaskier comes down his throat with a scream he fucking swallows without batting an eyelid, and when he finally moves his mouth away from Jaskier’s now softened dick, he _does_ look a bit smug —

But he doesn’t stand up and sighs when Jaskier’s fingers move down to caress his cheek and the corner of his mouth just after the bastard runs his tongue over his lips and then swallows _again_.

“Holy shit,” Jaskier breathes, “that can’t have been the first time you did it in years.”

Geralt shrugs, not quite looking at him. “I was good at it, _before_.”

“Oh, you’re damn good at it _now_ ,” Jaskier says, “and how are _you_ doing now?”

Geralt lets him look — well. He does look a bit harder than before — not that much, but _some_.

“Oh,” Jaskier smirks, “so _that_ worked?”

“Might have,” Geralt admits, “just, not —”

“Oh, I can be patient,” Jaskier grins back. “I can be very, _very_ patient.”

He does see Geralt shiver a bit at that, and so he leans down to kiss him and _fuck_ it shouldn’t be so hot that he tastes like _him_ but he does, and the fact that Geralt stays on his knees all along is _maybe_ getting to him even if he just came that hard, and at some point he _has_ to move back and tell Geralt to get on the bed already — he does, even if he looks a bit hesitant, and so Jaskier just leans down and kisses him again and moans into his mouth when Geralt’s hands tentatively touch his hips, and then — then his blood is rushing hot and he can feel Geralt’s heart beating just a tad faster and he doesn’t even think before he bites down on Geralt’s lower lip and two things happen at once.

First, _he_ jerks back. Second, _Geralt_ moans.

 _Hard_.

“Fuck, wait,” he says, “I didn’t mean to — it didn’t hurt?”

Geralt clears his throat and doesn’t quite look at him as he replies. “I — my pain tolerance. Is _high_. That — felt good. Barely stung.”

“I bit down _hard_ ,” Jaskier protests.

“Again, barely stung,” Geralt says, “do it again?”

Well. He asked, didn’t he. Jaskier nods and does it again and Geralt groans into his mouth and Jaskier can feel his cock twitching _again_ against his leg.

“Huh,” he says, “so what if I do _this_?”

He pulls on Geralt’s hair, not enough to _really_ hurt but enough to feel it…

Geralt moans pretty damn fucking loud.

“ _Again_ ,” he blurts, and so Jaskier does it, and moves downwards, biting down along his neck, teeth grasping the cool skin warming up underneath his mouth, and when he does it on top of the sutures Geralt turns his head so he screams into the pillow and not enough to wake up every other patron instead, and Jaskier can feel that his heartbeat is becoming _faster_ still.

Well _then_.

He bites his way down Geralt’s chest to his thighs, not touching his half-hard cock, and when he asks him to part his legs Geralt does at once and with anyone else he’d have stopped to get some oil, but if _he can’t feel pain that much_ … he spits on his fingers and pushes two inside him without warning and at that Geralt pushes his hips upwards, eyes opening with blown pupils.

“That good?” Jasker asks, pushing his fingers inside again.

“Oh,” Geralt blurts, “ _yes_ , I had no idea that —”

“Well,” Jaskier goes on, “guess it didn’t take long to figure it out, did it,” he says, and then, “if it _really_ hurts tell me,” and then he does it again with three fingers, and Geralt’s back literally arches and _fuck_ now he’s getting harder way faster than before.

On the other side, Jaskier is absolutely ready to go again because in between Geralt’s pale cheeks turning flushed and the way he’s holding on to him and how he’s writhing on his fingers like he doesn’t know how to stop, _well_.

He didn’t need much more incentive, especially considering _how long_ he’s been wanting this, and so he figures there’s no point in not going for it — he does spit on his palm just so it’s not _absolutely_ rough, but when he goes for it and moves away his fingers and slides inside Geralt feeling _exactly_ how tight he is, before he can ask if it’s fine Geralt has moved a hand behind his head and dragged him down for another kiss, and when Jaskier starts fucking into him he’s tight and _hot_ and he’s clenching around him so perfectly he feels like he’ll burst, but — _no_.

He has to make it last for a while — after all, if Geralt really hasn’t had any in _that long_ , it would be a pity if it didn’t, and so he keeps on fucking into him without adding any spit to it and then reaches down and starts jerking Geralt off with fast, strong motions, squeezing his cock _hard_ and feeling it growing stiffer under his fingers, not trying to make it slow or easy, and when Geralt murmurs _fuck I’m close_ against his mouth he’s all warm and flushed under him and his heartbeat isn’t so slow anymore and _fuck_ Jaskier’s self-control is pretty damn good considering he’s not coming just at the sight.

“Well,” he blurts, “then you should. Been wanting to see how you look like when you come for _weeks_ ,” and Geralt rasps his name in a way that goes to his fucking blood before he stills for a moment and then he’s spilling against his hand and clenching around Jaskier’s cock all over again and Jaskier holds out for a bit but he can’t really do it that much longer — he gasps and gives one last thrust before he comes inside Geralt at once and it’s not as hard as before but it doesn’t matter because he’s too distracted feeling light-headed for how _much_ Geralt is still spilling against his palm, writing under him, a leg hooked around Jaskier’s back and pressing him down, and he _has_ to lean down and bite on Geralt’s lower lip again before they kiss again as they come down from it.

Well.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks as he slips out a while later, wincing at how the skin around Geralt’s ass seems more than just a bit chafed, but the man doesn’t seem to mind — actually, he’s smiling just a bit, his cheeks still flushed, and when he opens his eyes they’re back to golden, but… they’re _softer_ now, and his heartbeat might be slowing down but it’s not back to his usual and fuck but Jaskier wants to do this again _very_ soon.

“Hey,” he asks, “so, how about not doubting my skills?”

Geralt hums something in agreement, then — “Uh, I — thank you, I guess.”

“Are you aware that you’re thanking me for doing something I’ve been wanting to do since the moment you pulled down that hood?”

“… You did, huh,” Geralt says, sounding like he can barely believe it.

“Hm, yes. And your _condition_ is, as stated, easily dealt with. So you like it rough, I can deal with that.”

“It didn’t feel rough,” Geralt says, “so… I suppose I do.”

He sounds like he wants to say something more.

Jaskier raises an eyebrow. “By the way, I want to do this again. Soon. As much as you’d like.”

“… You would,” Geralt repeats.

“Sure thing. Again… if anyone else was too much of a coward to bed you it’s not my business.”

“And you’re _not_ a coward, are you.”

“Most certainly _not_ ,” Jaskier grins back, and then he kisses Geralt again and so what if he smiles into it and a bit wider when he bites down on his lower lip _again_ as Geralt moans a little into his mouth again and puts an arm around his back as Jaskier holds him closer?

After all, too bad for everyone else. _He_ is certainly going to make sure Geralt gets how much exactly he’s into him, and he really, _really_ can’t wait for him to find out.

End.


End file.
